Five Minutes to Midnight
by Spark Writer
Summary: According to most calculations, humanity has another six billion years to live. This statistic, as it turns out, is devastatingly incorrect.


_(A/N): Comments are brilliant. xx_

...

...

A screaming comes across the sky.

Sherlock sticks his head out of the skip where he's taken shelter for the night, staring at what looks like a great, flaming asteroid arcs lazily over Big Ben and crashes to a halt somewhere on the other side of the city. Residual vibrations rattle his stomach and he swallows, shaken, as plumes of smoke and fire shoot up from the area of impact, entwining like the breath of a scaly beast. Civilians are shouting; several men stride past his hiding spot with mobiles pressed to their ears, frantically speaking to a 999 operator. Children are snatched up by parents and dragged into the safety of shops and restaurants. Cabs roll to a stop to discharge their patrons. Within minutes, the street is empty.

Sherlock swings himself over the edge of the skip and drops to the pavement. The wail of sirens makes for an eerie background melody as he looks about, lips dry, and makes up his mind. He begins to walk, not away from the collision, but toward it.

...

It's bloody hot. His shirt is sticking to his back like a second skin and beads of perspiration are sliding down his neck and under his collar. The city of London is no longer a land of cool temperatures and rain. Its ecosystem has taken an abrupt turn, making him feel like the sun is inching ever closer to earth. It's not the kind of sticky, humid sort of heat he experienced on summer days as a child. This is different, sharper. Every point of contact feels like a needle boring into his flesh.

The people Sherlock passes look pink and shiny, faces tinged with a heart-sinking rosacea. Their hair is stuck to their foreheads, to their necks, to their cheeks. They blink at him, clustered together for comfort, and he keeps going, blinking sweat out of his eyes and moving toward the smoke, the smell of burning bodies.

He threads through lanes of stationary traffic, vehicles empty where their drivers left them. Several cars are parked askew, doors left wide open. Sherlock bends to peer in one of them and sees three useful things. An aluminium bottle three-quarters full of water, an outdated but functioning mobile phone, and a miniature key chain torch. He deposits the items into his rucksack.

A child is crying nearby; great, heaving sobs like that of someone confronting their worst nightmare.

Sherlock raises the canteen to his lips and takes a hesitant sip. Something is not right.

...

Dead bodies. So many of them. He wants to get a good look, but there are all these _people_ standing around, hands over their mouths. Most of them are probably strangers like himself, drawn to the scene of disaster by morbid curiosity. Small children weave through the crowd, too young to grasp the devastation. They busy themselves by tugging jewelry off corpses and nicking a plethora of briefcases and handbags just for sport. Sherlock catches sight of a small boy working a wedding ring of one woman's finger.

"Don't," he says sharply. "That's not polite."

The boy stops and stares up at him with a blank expression.

"That means something to her," Sherlock adds. Corrects himself: "Meant."

It is starting to get very dark.

...

The power goes out at nine o'clock in the evening and does not come on again. Sherlock is very glad for the torch he stowed in his bag, and flicks it on in time to see a band of teenagers scuttling past, hooting like drunks with blades winking in their fists.

There's never been a better time for theft, he thinks dryly, crouching down in an abandoned alley and taking a large bite of stale sourdough. Though from the looks of it, they are interested in far more than burglary.

There's a sound to his left. He snaps his head around, and sees a very filthy old man huddled against the bricks. "W—water?" he rasps.

"No," says Sherlock, unremorseful.

"I n—n—need w—water."

"Can't help you." Sherlock gets to his feet and waves away a swarm of mayflies. It's not his job to help others. He is not responsible for anyone but himself.

...

BBC One makes an announcement the following dawn. Sherlock is out of mind with hunger, but manages to comprehend the gist of the statement:

Against all odds, Earth is being peppered with meteors. Also, the sun is growing inexplicably and rapidly hotter, and several continents have already been swallowed up by massive dust storms. Water supplies are either contaminated or evaporating, and there is no real hope of regaining electricity. All domestic satellite connections are severing one by one and Britain has officially lost contact with the rest of Europe. Given the current circumstances, humanity has an estimated twenty-one days to live.

It's the end of the world, basically.

...

He's trembling all over, but makes himself stand up and start walking, even though he doesn't know where to. He wishes, fiercely and for the first time, that he had not made the choice to run away.

"The sky's a horrible colour, innit."

Realising he's the one who is being addressed, Sherlock stops raiding the restaurant's bread box and looks over his shoulder at the women behind him. She doesn't look a touch unwell, just extremely tan, like someone who spends a great deal of time sunbathing. Her brown eyes are round and set deep in her face.

"Haven't seen it lately," he replies. "Been trying to stay inside."

"Smart boy." She comes over to stand beside him and plucks a baguette from a wicker basket. "My daughter's been crying nonstop. So hungry she can barely stand it."

All grocery stores, restaurants, and cafes have ceased operating. London has become a mess of ravenous individuals searching desperately for nourishment.

Sherlock concedes with a nod.

The woman pinches the loaf and the crease between her brows deepens. "Normally I would feel bad about stealing, but…"

"There's a place," says Sherlock suddenly. "On Baker Street. It's called Speedy's and it's got loads of food in the back. Take your daughter there. You won't run out for a long while."

"Thank you," she says, tucking a strand of grey hair behind one ear. "God have mercy on your soul."

Sherlock doesn't look up from the pastries. "Go," he says. "Before it's too late."

She takes the baguette and leaves.

Sherlock kneels among sacks of flour and falls asleep with his face flushed like a fever.

...

It's true. The sky is a horrid shade, jaundiced and dim with dirt. Beneath it rage more flames than ever, nearly as bad as The Great Fire of London, 1666.

Three days have passed, and it's like a different world. A sense of great piousness has emerged as a combatant for fear, and street corners are littered with men and women reading passages from the Holy Bible in cracked voices, calling all sinners to repent. No one is going to work anymore. People are leaving their homes in droves. The government has all but fallen to disuse. Prisoners have been let loose to roam with everyone else, and they pick their way through the city with strange satisfaction in their faces. They, at least, are free.

The Thames is growing swollen with bodies, hundreds of them, bloated and burned, dumped forlornly into a watery grave. The smell is overpowering. Families have set up camp by the river, but when the children run down to the banks to play, they are dragged back to safety and given a vicious lecture.

"There are certain things," everyone seems to be saying, "that we cannot do anymore. And you must accept it if you want to survive."

Except the little ones do not understand.

They say, "But I want to play."

...

Big Ben chimes for the last time that afternoon.

...

Sherlock heads for the river. It's a desperate tactic, but thirst is having its way with him and there's no running water in the city. He makes his way down to the bank, feeling nauseous from the odour of decomposing flesh. Others have gathered there, too, likely for the same reason. A women is on her haunches, lifting a palm full of muddy water to her lips and swallowing it fast. She gives some to her son to drink. He grimaces, then wretches, spitting the liquid out on dead grass. Sherlock begins unscrewing the lid of his water bottle. He is about to submerge the canteen when a scuffle breaks out on his right.

"Give me the necklace!"

"No!" A girl is clutching at her gold pendant with one hand and making a fist with the other, ready to cuff the young man opposite.

"Do you have any idea how valuable that is? And you're wearing it like it like this is a goddamn fashion show."

"Prick. Leave me alone!"

The man advances and she jerks backward, giving him a hesitant shove in the solar plexus. He laughs. "You don't want to get physical with me, girl." And pulls a knife out of his jacket, pressing it to her throat in one swift movement.

"STOP!"

Sherlock swivels his gaze to watch as a teenage boy with sandy hair a shade darker than the girl's comes sprinting out of some nearby reeds, aims his gun, and shoots.

The man drops, hitting dirt with nary a groan. Dead.

"Harry—Harry, are you alright?" The boy is slipping the gun into the waistband of his trousers, wrapping his other arm around the girl (sister?).

"I am _now_, you cock." She pushes him off, laughing in spite of her whitened lips.

Sherlock rises, putting the bottle back in his rucksack without filling it. With eighteen days to live, this is an ally worth having.


End file.
